


My Mouth Translates My Heart in Funny Ways

by frenchifries



Series: Future Brite [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchifries/pseuds/frenchifries
Summary: god, he could rip you open, couldn’t he (hasn’t he already?)





	

**Author's Note:**

> _break your heart i wouldn't dare_   
>  _it's too precious to repair_

You still get goosebumps when he noses against your temple, or brushes his lips along your hairline. You burn when he touches his scratchy tongue to the edge of your jaw, or grazes his cheek against yours; between the two of you is a constant burn, a smoldering time bomb, thrumming heartbeats and fogged up shades—a perfect, blissful agony; a joint coming undone.

He mouths at your neck, scraping with barely-sharp teeth and sandpaper tongue. You arch, aflame. Warm, his body is so warm, but it doesn’t smother like the Texas sun. You can’t feel the world around you, just him; for all you know, you’re floating. Maybe that’s why the sweat evaporates so quickly from your forehead.

He pinches the skin of your throat between his teeth—god, he could rip you open, couldn’t he (hasn’t he already?)—and sucks, soothing the pain with soft lips. Cracked, ragged noises spill from your mouth as a hand finds its way under your shirt. His nose is pressed against your neck, breath clouding in hot gusts that leave your skin prickling. The hand traces up your abdomen, thumbing each scar along the way; up along your sternum, ghosting just below your clavicles, down your expanding ribcage, stopping to feel the divot between each curved bone. Palm flat against your heart, feeling the rapid fluttering of the chambers—valves opening and closing like broken supermarket doors.

Another suck to your throat, a little lower and more centered. He drags his lips over the spot, ghosting over the invisible hairs and up to your jaw. He traces its edge with his tongue, rough and dry, noses your sideburn. Up some more, lips pressed to your temple, there’s blood pounding against your skull. His tongue darts out to catch a bead of sweat, continues in kind along your hairline—should be gross, but it’s not. It’s pale, oh god it’s so pale, he’s giving you a tongue bath, isn’t he? It’s stupid that that’s what damn near chokes you up. There probably aren’t even words to describe the strained, strangled sounds tearing from your throat. Pained sobs, but good, so good. There’s nothing about this that should be painful, except—except, _god_ , he’s destroying you like this, rending you piece from piece.

Little huffs of breath against your forehead, that scratchy tongue chasing the moisture of your brow, your heart is right about ready to come tumbling out of your chest and onto the floor. Drumming in your head, your ears, your fingertips—you’re burning, hotter than a supernova, burning yourself out until all that’s left is dust. Harsh, rattling breaths fill the air and it’s difficult to tell where your sounds end and his begin.

His chest is vibrating against yours in a chirruping purr, and you—you need him, and you need him to need you. You know it’s wrong. You know you shouldn’t get so attached that you can’t function on your own. You can’t afford—don’t deserve—to indulge this weakness. You need to be strong enough to stand on your own two feet, but it’s awfully hard when he makes you so weak in the knees.

All you can think is _Karkat_ , and you keep thinking it until your broken sounds piece themselves together into his name. He exhales at that, hot breath casting over your face like clouds, like rain. He’s shaking, too. One hand pressed against your heart, the other laced through the back of your hair, he kisses you—between the eyebrows, beside your nose, on the mouth. Your insides feel too big for your skin, and you let his tongue in easily, far too easily—

_(it’s fine, it’s fine, this is right, this is okay, you love him, you love him, you… you hate that you love him and you love that you love him and you’re afraid, afraid because you don’t deserve good things, afraid because good things don’t come without bad things, not for you, afraid because there’s too much that might or might not happen, too much you want, too much you shouldn’t want, and you…)_

—and you hold him tight against you and let the awful sounds escape you and fuck, fuck it hurts, and it hurts worse because you know it’s hurting him, too, you know he needs this as much as you do, you know he’s the same as you, you know he’s afraid, too.

He’s pulling away from your lips and looking at you painfully, like he wishes so badly he could look away, and you’re sure you’ve pushed him away but. But he noses against your cheek and when he retreats again there’s a wetness glinting at its tip, and you touch a trembling finger to where he disrupted the flow of—yep. Tears. Fuck. This is wrong. _You_ were supposed to be the strong one, the one with your shit together, _you_ were supposed to take care of _him_.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but all that comes out is a strained sound of distress, or arousal, or both, and he brushes his lips up your cheek, catching the dampness on his tongue. He breathes heavily into you, chest surging against your own, and he gulps down air before dragging his tongue more thoroughly along your face. Your eyes burn and ache and waves of pressure in your skull keep pushing out more tears, and he catches every one and it’s… it’s too much tenderness, it’s an infinite feedback loop—the gentler he is, the more the tears come, the more carefully he touches you, the worse the pressure gets.

The hand under your shirt withdraws, leaving in its wake a cold spot over your heart, and finds a new home holding the side of your face. His eyes—all gold and silver and flecking red—are locked on yours, and cracked breaths spill from his cracked lips. Your chest is too tight, your lungs too small. Blood rushes through you like lava, like ice. Everything feels perfect and horrible all at once, too much to bear, and you press your face into his and hold him tighter, arms constricting his middle (but he doesn’t seem to mind).

Your nose is squashed against his cheek, close enough to smell his hair—warm and dry and dusty—and you feel his breath by your ear, heaving and wanting and uncertain and. You pull back, smear your lips against his, dart your tongue along his teeth and he whines, this small plaintive noise that makes your sternum ache. You push into him, and he pushes back, and you’re. Confused. You don’t know what this is. Maybe it’s too much, maybe it’s a bad idea, maybe it’s not what either of you needs—but god, when he kisses you like that and touches your face like that and drags his claws along your scalp, down your neck, and you shudder and writhe and you _need_ this—need _him_ —more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life.

His breaths start coming heavier, his body rolling into yours, which— _shit_ —you jolt and bury your face in his neck and kiss and bite and suck and he claws, gently, down your back and up your sides, palms sliding flat and hot against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You cascade together, an ebb and flow made unsteady by erratic lurches—on your part or his, it’s impossible to say.

“Karkat,” you breathe into his neck.

It’s a confession, an apology, an entreaty. He responds with a moan that ruffles your hair and stirs your gut. You hitch a leg around his back and he threads a hand through your hair, tugging (not nearly hard enough) until your mouth meets his, frantic and sloppy and wet. He kisses your cheeks, chasing the tracks of moisture with urgency, and your throat swells with something dangerous and fragile.

“I—please, just,” you say haltingly, _god_ you wantneedlove him so much, you’ve got it bad, you’re nothing without his warmth all down your front, his fingers branding your skin like hot irons—edging under your shirt, fuck, _fuck_ you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die and it’ll be Just because you let him do this to you, let yourself get swept up in the way he’s burning you inside and out, burning a hole straight through your middle until there’s nothing left of you and _why does that feel so good?_

“I know. I know,” is all he says. “It’s okay.”

He’s right, he has to be. It’s okay. You’re okay. You…

You’ve never been fucking _okay_ a single day in your damn life. You’re not… you can’t… the weight bearing down on you and the humid air and _you’re not safe, you’ve never been safe, you’re not okay nothing is okay why can’t you scream_ —

“Dave,” he says, quiet and hard. “I’m here, it’s me, you’re fine.” His fingers lace in your hair and cradle your cheek, thumb tracing patterns under your eye. It’s… gentle, and nice, and of course you’re safe, god why are you so stupid.

“Kar…” you try. You swallow. “I’m sorry.” It’s hardly more than a whimper. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m not okay, I’m sorry Karkat.”

Your head is shaking side to side, eyes squeezed shut, tears burning your skin. He’s… why are you having trouble with this, it’s just him, just Karkat, he smells so different from… why did you… you’ve been teetering this edge too long, too much static in your head and fingers, and apparently your brain is functional enough to recognize how fucking stupid you’re being, but not enough to make you stop.

His face, fading in and out of your bleary vision, is—hurt, you think. Twisted in anguish and this time you know you’ve fucked up beyond repair, he wasn’t supposed to see this, he’s not supposed to be here when you get like this and he’s never going to want to be with you again and it takes you a moment to realize that horrible sound is your own garbled hiccuping speech.

“Karkat I’m so sorry this—wasn’t supposed to happen I—I thought I was okay I’m sorry I d—don’t, I didn’t—”

The word vomit only stops when he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and shooshes you, long and low and soft, the sound cold against your skin. Pressure on your cheek—a hand, his hand, of course it’s his—touching and retreating, away and back again, rhythmic, gentle, grounding.

Slowly, way slower than you’re okay with, your stuttering breaths settle into something just a little closer to acceptable, the boiling in your limbs calming to a quasi-bearable thrum. (At least you can feel your fingers enough to appreciate the firm-soft hair they’ve managed to bury themselves in.)

“Better?” he says an eternity later, barely more than a breath you’re quick to take as your own. You jerk your chin sharply in what you hope comes across as a nod, clenching and unclenching your hand against his scalp.

“I,” you start, unable to even get the whole vowel out before wincing at your own voice. Why are you cold? Belatedly, you realize Karkat shifted his weight off of you at some point; he’s pressed to your side, one leg lazily tossed over yours but… but he was giving you space to escape. Because you panicked. Because you thought he was a threat. Because you’re a fucking piece of shit that can’t even keep your scrambled brains in order.

And the way he’s looking at you, brows furrowed, mouth crumpled and downturned…

“I’m sorry,” is what comes out of your mouth. Still sounds like shit. You’ve said it too much. But you need to. You can’t apologize enough. He’ll never forgive you for this. He…

He presses his lips to your temple, darts that tongue out again and, like the gross horrible dumbass you are, you want to cry all over again.

“Dave.” You flinch. What could he possibly have to say after a stunt like that? He sighs through his nose. “I don’t… know how to not be an asshole. Um.” He bites his lip, flits his gaze around the room before returning it to you and. You can’t breathe, your chest is collapsing, he’s done with you isn’t he, you may both be fuckups but evidently you’re in an entirely different league and he’s just trying to think of a polite way to say that.

He starts again.

“I’m sorry, okay, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say and I know telling you not to be sorry is fucking useless, okay, believe me I know that, but you’re not… Fuck. _I’m_ the one who has to be sorry here, I’m the asshole and I’m sorry I’m not… No, shit, this sounds like I’m making this about myself, god why can’t I get this right!”

A laugh wrenches itself from your mouth, an ugly, hollow, bitter thing that surprises you with its volume.

“I get it,” you whisper, because it’s all you can do right now. “I can’t expect you to take care of me.” Bitter, stop sounding so bitter, shit’s like fucking black licorice up in here. “I thought I could be…” _strong for you_ , is what you want to say, but it sounds so stupid in your head that you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. “You don’t need me fucking up your life,” is what you say instead.

“That’s not! No, fuck, that’s not what I meant!” He’s scrambling, one hand fluttering against your face as if he isn’t sure whether or not to touch you again. “I just.” He closes his mouth, opens it again, eyebrows unable to make up their mind as to where on his face they want to hang out. He sits up halfway, looks at you determinedly.

“I love you.”

It’s a sound you’ve heard plenty times before, not so much as to lose meaning, but right now it rings hollow. You scrub your face with your hands, rub your eyes until they hurt and swim with spirals of nonexistent color. You shake your head.

“I do!” He reaches towards you, then drops the hand in his lap. “Dave.”

Even as you do your best to will the feeling away, the way he says your name _still_ sends lances through your ribcage.

“I do, I really love you, Dave, more than I thought was possible, okay, I know that sounds fucking stupid and fake but it’s true and I don’t know how to say it clearly enough because I’m a fucking dumbass and I hate myself, and you hate yourself, but I love you and… and if you still love me then maybe we’ll be okay enough to eventually hate ourselves a little less, right?” His voice breaks a bit towards the end.

Christ, he has you both pegged. It’s fucked up, _so_ fucked up, this has to be unhealthy and terrible, right? But you’re already unhealthy and terrible on your own, anyway. Hesitantly, you take the hand in his lap.

“You don’t fuck up my life, Dave.”

(Your name again, he says it so much, says it so sad and sweet and careful, there’s that strangling wantneedlove again.)

“I don’t want to think about life without you anymore. You don’t fuck up my life, you make it… better. So much better, I know, we’re a couple of codependent assholes and I’m sure we’ll get to a better place eventually but right now this is what we need. I mean. If that’s what you want.” His fangs press into his lower lip again, and he squeezes your hand.

 _If you still love me_ , he had said. You made him think… of course you did, how else was he supposed to take this bullshit you’ve just heaped on him like some kind of… bullshit heaper. Fuck. Floodgates are open. You throw yourself at him, wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his abdomen.

“God, Karkat, of course I love you, I can’t stop loving you okay I am the worst I am the sickest fucker that ever lived and I don’t mean sick in a good way I mean I am completely sick in love with you fuck how could you think… I couldn’t stop loving you if I wanted to, this is all I want, right here, just… you, Karkat, fuck, I love you okay I love you so fucking much you have no idea sometimes I wanna die with how much I love you I don’t know what to do with this, just—”

You can’t finish because you’re too busy soaking his shirt with more of your lameass tears, fuck, you’ve gotta be running out soon. Your chest, your lungs are full with him, just _Karkat, Karkat,_ nothing else matters except his weight and his warmth and his hand in your hair.

You tilt your head up to see his face, and something wet falls on your forehead, jesus shitting fuck he’s crying too, but he’s smiling—grinning, even—and he laughs and his face does this amazingly beautiful scrunchy thing and you love him more than you’ve ever loved him before, you think, and his eyes squinch closed and thick reddish tears slip down his cheeks and onto your face and something snaps sidewards in your chest and you.

You climb that boy like a tree and smoosh your damp face into his and he laughs again and you laugh and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him over and over and you’re smiling and laughing and _I love you, I love you, loveyousomuchgodyouhavenoidea_ is being said by one of you, both of you probably, and the hold on your chest is as tight as ever but there’s something airy there, too, something buoying you up and up until you can’t feel anything but his mouth against yours and your hands on his face, in his hair, on his chest, oh whoops looks like you’re macking on his neck now but it’s your favorite place to be, right here in the warmth of him, as close as possible to being—fuck, _inside him_ sounds sexual but that’s the feeling, like you’ve scooped out a space in his chest cavity to call your own and he’s done the same to you.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, but different this time, fast and urgent, into his collarbone. “For being an asshole. For making you feel like an asshole. I just wanna be.” You falter. You need to get it out, need to tell him. “I wanna be strong for you, and I’m not, not enough, but we’re getting there, right, we’re both getting there so it’s gonna be okay but I’m sorry.”

He dips his head down, noses at your brow and hairline, huffs a little laugh against your face.

“You’re already strong, you’re so fucking strong, Dave, you have no idea, you don’t need to be anything for me other than everything you already are.” His voice is low and hurried and breathless and it spears you right through the middle but like in a good way.

(Shit, emotional vulnerability is one hell of a high.)

“It’s gonna be okay,” you say again, letting him snuffle along your forehead in that weird trollish way he likes to do (who are you kidding you fucking love it you can’t get enough of that shit it’s so damn _animal_ why the fuck don’t humans touch each other like this?). “There’s a lot more hot steaming garbage where that came from, for both of us, but. But maybe if we just… keep going, maybe we’ll get better, maybe it’ll be okay, right?”

You can feel Karkat’s smile when he kisses the bridge of your nose, and you return it when you leave a smooch at the soft spot under his jaw (the soft spots only you get to touch, just for you, he’s yours and you’re his and okay maybe you can’t stop smiling, just a little).

“Yeah,” he mumbles—getting drowsy, you think; maybe that was like a pale orgasm for him, or however the heck that works.

“Yeah, we’re gonna be okay.”


End file.
